


i wanted to go somewhere the brain had not yet gone

by ultraviolence



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Closure, Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Sarkan is a huge nerd, relationship exploration, these cinnamon rolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6477640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted not to be there so alone. | Sarkan's return, a dance, and a walk in the Wood. Also an unexpected...intrusion in form of a baby walker. Fluff, T for some kissing, oneshot. Dorks being dorks, Sarkan is a sass master and an idiot, too much banter being exchanged. Somebody call damage control. Gratuitous, gratuitous fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wanted to go somewhere the brain had not yet gone

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Adrienne Rich's "Letters To A Young Poet". This gets too long for my own good (and probably yours too), in terms of word count or time consumed to write this. Please enjoy. xx

“Come and meet my mother,” she had told me, smiling at me like it was the end of the world and that she was truly glad to see me. The sky had a jubilant quality to it, clear and blue, birds were singing, and spring, if not in the air, are already on its way. Everywhere people were singing or dancing or laughing, and there is a peculiar kind of magic that comes with festivities, crackling and filling the spaces between the people gathered in the square.

Agnieszka had smiled at me then, and took my hand, a bold act that draws too many unwanted attention (although all attention is, by nature, unwanted). I almost shook my head and pull my hand away. The foolish girl doesn’t know what she’s in for.

It had all been grand, the reunion, the purging of a great evil that had plagued us for centuries. The resuscitation of a kingdom in the brink of collapse. The bards never stopped singing about it, the storytellers never shutting up (then again, they never did), everyone celebrating about it in one way or another. I had heard several dozen versions about the retelling, and the story gets wilder and wilder as time goes on. I sensed Solya’s hand in it. He always liked too much glory for his own good.

The meeting with Agnieszka’s mother had been a disaster, to put it mildly. I would rather go to the heart of the Wood again and face the evil that once controlled the place. She asked too many questions, and too little formality is as bad as too much of it. I don’t know if anyone can be even more insufferable than Agnieszka, with her unmatched talent for inviting disaster and breaking the rules of magic, but apparently, I was proven wrong. It runs in the family.

Her mother’s questioning had emboldened some of the other villagers, and they asked me questions about the nature of my relationship with Agnieszka. The idiot. She might as well announce to the whole of Polnya that we’re in love. Which is not the case, obviously. I got up and walked away before her father could question me, too.

“Sarkan,” she had called after me, scrambling to catch up. I wish I could just use the transporting spell and bring myself back to my tower, but I can’t bear to look at the state of the place now. “Where are you going?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose in annoyance, hoping against all hope that there is some sort of spell to make her go away.

“Somewhere where there’s no people,” I told her. “Somewhere where there’s _peace_ and _quiet_ to be had.”

“But you can’t!” she sputtered, trying to catch up with me. “You haven’t even met my brothers yet.”

“Do I look like I want to meet your brothers?” I stopped walking and turned to face her, crossing my arms. She had a disgustingly hopeful look on her stupid face at first – there are still crumbs and god knows what else decorating the corners of her mouth, she’s impossible and I don’t know how I can stand her all this time, a blight in my otherwise orderly world – but _that_ look met the look on _my_ face, and she was soon as crestfallen as she can be. I felt a slight pang of something I would rather not acknowledge.

“ _Oh_ ,” she remarked listlessly, with a sad look on her face, looking more and more like the country bumpkin she is, than a court-acknowledged witch. I made a noise of disapproval. She didn’t notice, or was purposely ignoring it, as she always did. Typical of her. “Can’t you at least stay for dessert?”

“ _No_ ,” I told her firmly, maybe a little harsher than I intended it to be. “I still have to collect the tax.” 

Which, I affirm, is not completely a lie. It _is_ something that I have to do.

“Well…” she draws out the syllable, suddenly looking equal parts bashful and hopeful, and I stared at her impatiently. I was struck by how young she looked at the moment, new to the craft and all it entails, and I could imagine how they see her in Charovnikov, a young, dirty peasant girl who haven’t gotten enough training. I almost felt sorry for her.

I was younger than her when I took the test.

“Well _what_?” I told her, stamping my boots impatiently, getting the memory out of my mind. The past is not something I would like to revisit, much less talk about, even if, more often than not, I found that memories was my only constant companion in an otherwise ever-changing world.

“Won’t you at least dance with me?” I would say that she was batting her eyelashes, almost convincingly, or at least she had _that_ look, what garden-variety fools would have called _lovestruck_ , but I’m much too amused and surprised at her question / request to notice. “At least once?”

I looked at her, then I looked at the quite sizeable crowd some distance away (thankfully they have lost interest in our exchange, I know that some of them were watching us with great interest that’s wholly unbecoming), and I returned my gaze to her. She still looked at me hopefully, as if at any moment I might change my mind, walk hand-in-hand with her back to the festival, and smile at everyone. I snorted. She might as well ask me to transform into a real dragon.

“The taxes aren’t going to collect themselves, you know. I should have taught you that, before I taught you to meddle in magic and things you do not fully understand.”

“Well,” she insisted stubbornly, digging her heels on the earth like she might cast _fulmia_ , still casting hopeful glances my way, “when you’re done, I’d still be here.”

“Agnieszka,” I told her, her name tasting of cinnamon and spices and the earth and petrichor and the home I’ve never had, “don’t bet on it.”

 Then I cast my transporting spell and was away, all the noises of festivities fading behind me as I stepped into the void.

I was almost sorry to admit that for a brief moment, I was hoping that she would grab my arm and stop me from going. But she didn’t.

* * *

Later, I transported myself back to the place where I part ways with her. I wasn’t expecting her to be there. I wasn’t expecting _myself_ to be there, either. I was ready to go back to the inn where I was staying temporarily, when I was done collecting taxes. I almost transported myself to the Tower out of habit. I’ve never been sentimental about it, but it was the closest thing to a home that I’ve ever had.

Instead, I gave in to foolishness and went back to Olshenka.

She was there, waiting for me, sitting under a tree. She was still wearing the same dress that she’d worn earlier, torn in places, her hair matted and messy, clumps of it straying from the braid she was supposed to be wearing. She was barefoot, and said foot was caked with mud. I crinkled my nose. The mere sight of her, in that disheveled and filthy state, makes me want to shake her by the shoulders and lecture her about the importance of _vanastalem_ all over again, or at least the value of a _clean_ and _proper_ appearance.

Then again, it’s too much to expect. This is Agnieszka’s natural state. This is her magic. It’s one of the things about her that I’m trying to come to terms with.

“Sarkan,” she exclaimed, fireflies framing her profile, saying my name like it was the happiest thing that ever happened to her, instead of a disaster. I had another name once, a temporary one, a long time ago, before the court acknowledged me as a wizard. For a brief moment, I had hoped that I might remember; so I can tell her about it, hear her say it. How her voice infused warmth to a name and made a home out of an inhospitable place. I wonder if that name, too, will sound just as warm, in her mouth. I had to admit that it was another gift of hers: impossibility.

She had utilised Jaga’s magic, and improved it to fit her own. Impossible. She had drawn all the malice out of the Wood Queen, thereby saving the kingdom. Impossible. She had made me feel something that I had shunned long ago, build a home in syllables that was supposed to be thunder and lightning, fire and smoke and the rasping of heavy scales. Impossible.

Everything about her screams home, but I resisted.

“You’ve returned,” she said, half in disbelief. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to embrace me, and I could feel my traitorous body responding in turn, wanting to embrace her, as well, and put my fingers in that tangled mess of a hair, but I turned away.

“Yes, well,” I said, feeling uncharacteristically flustered; I hope the evening hid my expression well. Another reason why I disliked her so much; being around her turned my usually systematic mind upside-down, the feelings she caused by her presence – and, by extension, the things she said and did – is perplexing and more than a little uncomfortable. Not to mention that it is unbecoming for a wizard of my age and stature. (I did point that out – my age and the gap between us – but she persisted.)

“I couldn’t let you dance alone, and I took pity on you, so I decided to come back and see how you’ve fared.”

She scrunched up her nose in response, as if what I’d just told her was an especially bewildering mystery that she was trying to solve (I briefly – only _briefly_ , mind – thought that it was adorable, but I soon come to my senses), and then broke out into one of her especially silly smiles. I never get why she, or other people, insists on smiling so much. It’s unflattering and puts a strain on your face muscles. I scowled at her.

“Does that mean _you’re_ going to dance with me?” She was filled with such ecstatic awe and wonder, I was truly stunned. She looked her age again, and something else besides, something radiant and beautiful, and I looked away. She was acting like a child. “You’re going to, aren’t you? You said it. You couldn’t let me dance alone.”

“I…” I was at loss for words. I cursed myself, mentally, for saying that. It was only an expression, one that was meant to mock her, not to strengthen her arguments. It’s not as if I _wanted_ to dance with _her_.

Well, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I had to stay away. I had to. I had to stop this madness before it escalates further.

“You can’t take it back!” she cried, positively gleeful, followed by a fit of giggling. I stared at her like she was mad. She wasn’t deterred, much to my chagrin, not in the slightest. She’d grown too used to me. “Sarkan, you’re going to dance with me, and I’m not going to let you get away this time.”

She seized my arm before I could react, locking it with hers, and started to drag me away. Even worse, apparently she had some dirt on her fingers (as she always did), and she managed to smear some of it on my coat. My _good_ blue coat. I don’t know why I ever thought of her as radiant, or, heavens forbid, beautiful. I must have gone mad. Something in the Wood must have poisoned me. She was caked with dirt, and she was most assuredly _not_ beautiful. And she was dragging me away, to the horrors of the village square.

“Is this appropriate?” I stopped, resisting her literal advances. I was not much bigger than her, physically, but I was still stronger than her. She glared at me – which, disturbingly, is the mirror of my own – and tried to pull me in the direction of the revels (which was still going, although I suppose it had died down somewhat, thank goodness), but it’s my turn to plant my boots stubbornly in the ground. I would die trying if I have to. I’m not going to let her drag me back to that hell. Her father would have questioned me for certain. “Agnieszka? Dragging me around like this? Is this an express permission to set your arm on fire?”

It was her turn to snort. I was still scowling, and I wouldn’t stop scowling until she let go of my arm and me, in general.

“You’d burn _your_ arm too. In any case, it’s a good thing that you can’t actually breathe fire.” Then she flashed me one of her mischievous looks – one that screams trouble – and tightened her grip on my already suffering arm. Quite the reverse of what I expected her to do (although there’s a part of me who relished this…this closeness, and wanted more), but she never did what I expected her to do. Or the entire world, for that matter. It frustrated me to no end. And the world too, I’m sure. I’ve already heard about what the Splendid and the court have to say about Agnieszka of Dvernik.

Oddly, I felt that it was my duty to set at least some things straight. It was my fault that she went to court without proper instructions and warnings. It was my fault, too, that she was still lacking in training. But it’s absolutely not my fault that she resisted most of it.

“Are you saying that the great Dragon, slayer of chimeras, the first and foremost wizard in all of Polnya, all-powerful and all-knowing, _can’t dance_?”

I bristled, and glared daggers at her some more. I had to bit my tongue in response to her previous remark that I can’t actually breathe fire, since I wanted to remind her that with _proper_ encouragement, I might be able to do that, and set her ugly, filthy face on fire. Which I’m trying really hard not to do. Or think about.

“Quite the contrary, actually.” I responded, smoother than I expected, thankfully. She seemed to be dumbstruck, the poor girl, maybe thinking that she’d actually found my _weakness_. Well, she’s not the first. I took the chance to free myself from her grip, putting some distance between us.

I could feel the corners of my lips turning upwards to form a faint smirk. I gave her a mock bow.

“Would you care to try?”

“Here?” first she sputtered, still as dumbstruck as a cow caught in a lightning strike. I mentally congratulated myself for my victory. “But I…I…”

I extended a hand. “Are you saying that the miraculous Agnieszka of Dvernik, saviour of Polnya, the prodigal new witch, apprentice to the Dragon, _can’t dance_?”

She looked at me oddly for a moment, as if I sprouted wings and started calling myself a ridiculous bird of prey instead. I was obviously irritated, since I was still relishing my victory, and she hasn’t took my hand, still extended towards her. A challenge. A desire. An invitation.

“Sarkan,” she said at first, still looking at me strangely. “ _Sarkan_ ,” she said again, with emphasis, which brought to mind the memory of the night before the confrontation with Marek’s men. I shook the thought away.

“What?” I snapped, almost pulling my hand back. But I didn’t. Another thing in my long list of regrets. “Do you want to dance, or not? You idiot girl, don’t keep me waiting!”

“You just called me miraculous.” She was still gaping, and I wanted to slap her. I wanted to slap some sense into her. I wanted to shake her, and kiss her. I wanted to taste her again. Not just her magic, but also _her_ , the whole of it, raw and improbable and brilliant. I shook _this_ thought away, too. “And _prodigal_. That’s new. What has gotten into you?”

“I also called you my apprentice,” I retorted hastily, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious all of a sudden. “In case you missed it. You _obviously_ still have much to learn.”

She broke into another smile – the sun breaking through the clouds – and took my hand, gently. It was as if the world come to a sudden halt, and I could smell her, earth and rain and home and impossibility. I wanted to pull away. I wanted to. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“Including how to dance,” she admitted, not embarrassed in the least. “Well, _properly_. You can start teaching me now.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I told her, grimly, but even as I said it, I knew that my lips were already forming a smile. I wrapped my arm around her waist and allowed her to pull me closer, her hand on my shoulder.

She kissed me.

“You’re the worst apprentice I’ve ever had, Agnieszka.” I told her, after we’re done kissing. She was still breathless after the kiss, still had that awestruck look on her face, still in my arms. “You consistently break the rules, court disaster after disaster, insists that you’re right, do impossible things, and,” I added, as an afterthought, “you ruined my coat.”

At my last remark, she pulled away, instinctively, like a child scolded, and looked down, embarrassed. However, I can tell that she’s considering what I said seriously (for once), at least the last part about the coat, because I caught her stealing glances at it, looking here and there at the smudges (more like _trail_ ) of mud and dirt that she’d left.

“You could just use one of the cleaning cantrips you taught me about,” she said, petulantly. And, before I could fling a retort, she added: “ _And_ you still owe me a dance.”

I was hereby surprised, agitated, annoyed, and amused, all at the same time. In that particular order. I gave her a considering look.

“Maybe if you’d stop _sulking_ ,” I suggested, with proper emphasis, “I could actually teach you something _useful_ this time.”

She looked me over, once, twice, as if I was suggesting that she should turn into a tree instead. Which, considering her now relaxed stance towards the Wood, is something she will perhaps do.

“Maybe if you’d stop scowling,” she said, taking my hand for the second – well, _third_ – time that day, “I’d be more enthusiastic in my efforts, _my lord_. And dancing is not ‘something useful’. Not even remotely.”

“Would you rather we study about something else instead, _my lady_?” I pulled her in, and it disturbs me how comfortable she is with me, how her hand fits mine. How it all felt…strangely, and unnervingly right. It was something I’d rather not think about, but it’s hard to do so, when she’s so close to me.

She pushed me back a little, tilting her chin up to look me in the eye. There was a ferocity in her eyes, a ferocity that draws me in, something that left me breathless and exhilarated.

I have never been so afraid in my life. I have never been so afraid to lose her. I have never been so afraid.

“Just shut up and dance with me.”

When she kissed me again, later on, she laughed her strange girlish laugh and there is a twinkle in her eyes that rivaled starlight.

I was hoping that she didn’t notice that I use magic to help me dance.

When I kissed her in turn, I could hear the past rushing up again, like the river, the Spindle, lapping against my legs and telling me _Sarkan, Sarkan, you’re not part of this, you’re not one of them_. _You can’t love her. She can’t love you_.

I pulled away then, breathless, remembering my own oath – my promise to myself – that I would stay away. The weight of the year fell between us in that moment, the year where I left her, the year when I walked away from her. Things were not the same. I’ve made my choice, a long time ago. It was easy to forget, with her, but I don’t intend to forget my decision to stay away.

I’ve made my choice.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, starlight in her eyes, the taste of her still on my lips, memories of her magic mingling with mine rise up to the surface, unbidden and uninvited. Just like her. I pursed my lips and pulled away. It was a mistake to come back after all.

She fell silent, looking at me, considering the sudden distance between us, both physical and otherwise. Another stray lock of hair made it to her cheek, and I fought the urge to reach out and straighten it. I looked away.

“I understand if you’d want to leave now,” she said, suddenly, yet I knew that she was going to say that. She looked away, too, past me, to the forest behind us and the Wood beyond. We were closer to it than what was prudent, and despite her efforts, despite…the confrontation with the Wood Queen (that still haunts me to this day, her face, twisted with a malignancy that even I couldn’t comprehend, _still_ couldn’t comprehend, a familiar figure in the landscape of my dreams), I could feel tendrils of an old, familiar fear gripping my heart. I shivered lightly, hoping that Agnieszka wouldn’t see that.

“The festival’s over,” she continued, something akin to defeat in her tone, sending a fresh pang of pain to my heart, “you’ve collected the taxes. It’s getting late. You probably wanted to start Tower repairs early tomorrow.”

Despite my reservations, and the all-too familiar sensation of magic crackling through my veins, wanting to be released – I want to cast a transporting spell and get out of here, I want to cast a transporting spell because I don’t want to face her anymore – I took a step forward, towards her. She’s not looking at me. I took a step back.

“Will you be there?”

The question came out softer than I expected, rounder around the edges, hope leaking through its corners. I frowned, more at my own lack of self-control and myself, than towards her. I hope she didn’t take it the wrong way.

“Sarkan,” she said, the fire in my name finding a home in her, coursing through the air and to my veins. I could picture the charred remains of whatever transpired between us earlier, and maybe the entire of us, still smoking in the ruins. I shook the image away. “Don’t bet on it.”

There was a sadness to her it, how she said it, but, much to my elation – and I hated myself for feeling, once more, the flares of hope – there’s no trace of finality to it.

I want this to be over. But at the same time, I don’t want this to be over. I know that we – and if it could be called that, although I don’t believe in it, our fates – were far too entwined, went through too much together, to simply walk away from each other. She’d grown much too used to me – often to my chagrin – and I, to her.

I couldn’t understand.

“Good night.” She finally said, simply, and walked away. The night felt much darker after she was gone.

I transported myself to the inn, and tried to purge all thoughts of her from my mind.

* * *

I was in a worse mood than I expected when I arrived at the Tower the next morning. The weather was still what peasants would have called _good_ , as if mocking me, although it was a good deal cloudier than it was yesterday. I stood in what was supposed to be a path leading to the Tower, but now littered with debris from the battle. The bodies have been taken away, of course, but no one bothered to clear the debris. I pursed my lips in displeasure. This was supposed to be part of Agnieszka’s _task_ , although I know better by now than to expect her to do such things. She cared more about her village, the valley. Her _people_. How could I fault her?

But I know I did, as I sift through the debris, piecing together the events once more from memory. I’m trying to find anything that might be remotely useful, find out for certain if there had been any scavengers. Or if the men who hauled the bodies away had left anything behind. The sun peered out from throughout the clouds briefly as I cast a spell to help me clear the debris. I reached out with my magic, feeling the full impact of the damage and putting together a full image of the broken-down Tower. It’s going to be hard work, I thought to myself.

Of course, with the Wood’s evil…terminated, at least for now, I could go back to the capital and the walls of Charovnikov. The regent and the new king would certainly be more than pleased to receive my assistance. Solya would be annoyed. It would be my pleasure to annoy him.

Not to mention that the valley…had a witch, now, despite her lack of training, scholarship, or any sort of common sense whatsoever. I had no more reason to stay.

I cast a cleaning spell to rid my hands of whatever dirt clings there, and consider this thought.

A familiar humming breaks through my concentration.

“I don’t think I remember you saying that you’re going to be here. Why don’t you take care of your _trees_ instead?” I told her, not bothering to turn around and look who it is. I _know_ who it is.

“You asked me if I’m going to be here,” Agnieszka countered, and I don’t need to see her to recognise the familiar frown. _Too_ familiar. I despised it. “And here I am. Besides,” she added, approaching me, “you could probably use some help.”

“I _don’t_ need your help,” I told her, exasperated.

“Well, then, why did you ask, last night?”

I turned around to face her, anger and annoyance surging through me, a welcome distraction from other…feelings that took root in me the moment I saw her again.

“I _didn’t_ ask,” I snapped at her, wanting her to just go away and leave me be. I couldn’t understand all these… _things_ I’m feeling, at the sight of her, the thought of her, and memories of her. I long to understand, but I felt this before, long ago, and that woman was long dead now. “I _don’t_ want you to be here.”

I was prepared to leave her then, leave her and this blasted valley forever, but she caught my arm. I glared angrily at her, trying to pull myself away. She didn’t let me.

“ _You’re_ running away,” she remarked, just as fired-up as I do, her irritation fueling her, her grip iron as she fought off my attempts to free myself and pulled me closer. To _her_. I doubled my efforts.

“I’m _not_ ,” I snarled at her, baring my teeth, “I’m not running away! _You_ are an insufferable _idiot_ and you should let me go at _once_!”

In the past, yelling at her helps, even if only a little, and I saw her cringe at my display of temper. The new Agnieszka, however, was most certainly not deterred, and instead of giving in to my demands, she gritted her teeth and kissed me on the lips.

To her credit, she wasn’t as sloppy as she was the first time, or last night for that matter. She’s _improving_. I let out a noise of annoyance and tried to pull myself away – I should have used a transporting spell when I was still able, or, better yet, hurl a fireball at her, that should teach her a lesson – but she tightens her grip, and oddly, I do not want to set her on fire for that. I could feel myself relaxing, the tension on my muscles unknotting themselves, and, against better judgment, I kissed her back.

The crack of a branch and the rustle of leaves brought me to my senses, and I disentangled myself from her. I spotted two walkers some distance away, peering at us from underneath the canopy of leaves. I bristled.

“How nice of you to bring your friends, Agnieszka. Are they staying for tea?”

I’ve already had a dozen spells running through my mind, most of them had something to do with _fire_ and _burning_. I’ve prepared to cast them, magic rising from me like a smoke. The walkers took a step back. Agnieszka seized my free arm.

“Sarkan,” she said, anchoring me back to reality, although I’m still glaring at the walkers and prepared to burn them to the ground should the need arise, “No. Stop. They’re not going to attack us.”

“So now you’re also the walker whisperer, aside from the tree coddler, aren’t you? Wonderful.”

I have heard tales of her success, of the people she rescued – brought home or burned to cinders – and of the evil she siphoned off the Wood, too. And I would be lying if I said that I’ve never read the letters she sent to me while I was still in the capital.

All those letters. I’ve never deigned her worthy of a reply. She finally stopped writing, although a letter or two still makes their way to me once every month or so. All those letters smelled like her, and the earth, and the Wood. Sometimes she even got mud and dirt smudged on the edges of the paper, and other things, too. It reminds me of the time when I tried to teach her simple cantrips and basic spells in the library – my library – and she was still a ridiculous country girl with no idea what she’s getting into.

Well, she was still a ridiculous country girl with no idea what she’s getting into, or, to be more specific, what she’s bringing into the world, what she’s _changing_ , but it looks like her stubbornness had perhaps amounted to something after all.

I don’t know what to make of it – of all of this - either. I simply would have said that there is not enough data to form a complete theory, let alone pass an informed judgment, but in truth, I understand that it’s more complicated than that. I have gone to the heart of the Wood with her; I have faced with Wood Queen with Agnieszka, I have seen her malice and the end of it – or at least the temporary end of it – firsthand.

She may be young and naïve, but I’m older than her, and I don’t trust things I can’t understand. I understand magic. I understand the Wood’s history and its scheming, its corruption and its shiftiness. I don’t understand… _this_. I don’t understand her, either.

She was looking at me with obvious displeasure, her cheeks flushed from either anger or embarrassment, perhaps both. I don’t care enough to find out which. I made a mistake once, and it costs Polnya the Raven and a town. I don’t intend to repeat that mistake, even if she told me that things are fine now.

“You’re going to be difficult forever, aren’t you?” She lets go of both of my arms, her nostrils flaring with anger. I gave her a disinterested look. I do not care to hear one of her lectures about the Wood and its _needs_ , nor the current state of Agnieszka – walkers diplomatic relations. I wanted to start repairing the Tower – even if I still entertained the thought that I could just walk away from this blasted valley _permanently_ now – and be done with it. “Listen, you _grumpy_ idiot-“ she grabbed my arm again and started dragging me towards the direction of the walkers. I shot her a warning glare.

“I would perhaps start listening if you’d stop dragging me around, Agnieszka.”

“And I would maybe stop dragging you around if you’d stop being so difficult, Sarkan.”

I wanted to throw my hands up in the air in frustration. There is no winning with this idiot girl.

“Fine, I’m _all_ ears,” I told her, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. She threw a glance in my direction and let go of me. I dusted off the arm she had been holding. “But only this once. And make it quick. We’re burning daylight.”

“Would be nice if there’s a spell for _that_ ,” she jabbed, and I know what she means, she was trying to be ironic about _being all ears_ , but I’m brushing it off. She caught my glare, however, and I saw her recoil for a split second. She took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m…I’m not good at explaining,” her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, “so I’m just going to show it you.”

She turned around and starts crossing the clearing, towards the direction of the walkers. I hesitated, still wary, but I followed her, keeping some distance away. She stopped within an arm’s reach of those walkers, muttering something. I held my breath. Is the foolish girl trying to get killed? That would do us all a great favour.

In any case, I keep my thoughts to myself, maintained a neutral expression, and observe the proceedings very carefully. She seemed to be communicating with them. In return, they seemed to…ask her for help, but I cannot be sure. I made a mental note. She looked apologetic for a moment, and then turned to me.

“It seems like they have lost one of their own. I would give them a heart tree fruit, not the corrupted ones of course-“ she quickly corrected, seeing the expression on my face, “-but I don’t have any.”

I know what she’s going to say next, but for some unfathomable reason, I seem to be in a state of denial.

“Sarkan,” she first said, her face a mask of _please-listen-to-me-this-is-important_ that I know so well, and I fought another urge to roll my eyes. I crossed my arms instead. “We must help them. They’ve asked me for help.”

“They asked _you_ ,” I said, pointing out the obvious. “Not me.”

She bit her lip in frustration, glancing at the walkers, then the trees, and back to me. I must admit that I found the behaviours of these walkers…curious, but I’m not going to just walk into _that_ place just because they asked me politely. They could have brought me cake, and I still wouldn’t be convinced.

“Well,” she took another deep breath, fighting what must be annoyance. I know this, because it’s what prolonged exposure to me usually does. And the feeling’s mutual. “You said you’re going to listen, and this…this is a chance. To see for yourself. The Wood’s changed, Sarkan. I made sure of that.”

I turned away, lifting my face to the sky. A hawk was making its rounds, circling the sun.

“I’ve read your letters.”

She fell silent at that, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. It’s not hard to figure out that she thought I didn’t read them. But I did. Every word of it. Every smudged paper. Every crumpled envelope.

I’ve had them in a box somewhere, in the inn, with the rest of the personal belongings that I took out of the Tower. I carried it with me from the capital.

“Then you understand that it’s not what you think it is anymore. We went to the heart of it together. You saw the Wood Queen. You know that she’s dreaming now. You saw it with your own eyes.”

I lowered my gaze, to the ruins of the Tower, the remains of the walls we’ve constructed. Remnants of the battle. But the true battle was deep there, somewhere in the dark, beating heart of the Wood. I could feel the corners of my lips forming a frown, but I know that she’s right. I saw it with my own eyes. I turned back towards her.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

Sunlight was fractured here, muted, as if light had suddenly taken on an evasive quality. The bright spring sunlight that had shone gaily through the cloud cover when we were standing in the clearing across the Tower was gone, replaced by its shier, murkier cousin. No wonder, I mused darkly, for we were in the Wood. Agnieszka had taken my hand, led by some phantom belief that I was afraid, or that I need her guidance. I almost snorted loudly at the thought. She kept her glance fixed towards the pair of walkers leading us, but she occasionally shot a look in my direction every now and then. I pretended that I didn’t notice, both the glance and the concern etched there. I didn’t need her concern.

I was busy making quick mental notes about an enormous heart tree we passed by, when she started plying me with her annoying questions.

“Sarkan,” she said as a preamble, her expression betraying her carefully neutral tone, eyeing me closely, “Are you alright?”

“I was, until you interrupted my train of thought.” I told her, craning my neck to get a better view of the tree. How old can it be? Since we aren’t stopping, and I know I wouldn’t, even if I wanted to, I have to make the most of it. “You unempirical imbecile, I was making mental calculations, until you interrupt me with your juvenile _concern_.”

She looked as if she might laugh, then. “What did you say you were doing?”

I glared at her. It’s a tiring job, but someone must glare at her. If not to keep her in line, then to at least let her know how decidedly and absolutely _irritating_ she is.

“I was _taking mental notes_ , Agnieszka. You’d do well if you started doing the same, and stopped mucking your feet in so much _dirt_.”

She laughed for real this time, a merry and twinkling sound, something that reminded me of how the church bells sound when the king marries the queen. I shook the image out of my mind, shook a peculiar delight the sound of her laugh elicited in me, and scowled.

“What’s so funny about that?” I asked her, already regretting the question after seeing the look of mischief on her face.

“We’re in the Wood, Dragon. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s dirt _everywhere_.”

I looked down, noticing that some of those filthy, wretched stuff had gotten into my positively clean and shining black boots, not to mention that some had found its way to my hand, by mere contact with Agnieszka, Mistress of Dirt, and I let out a noise of disapproval. Her smile widens.

“Maybe if you go out more often…!”

I was about to scold her for that, was about to give her the scolding of her life (I’ve always had at least three scoldings in mind, on various topics that covers a broad area, whenever she’s around, just in case), when the walkers stopped on a crook, and beckons us over with their elongated arms. She let go of my hand without thinking, abandoning both the course of the conversation and me, and went over to the walkers, half-running. I hesitated, running over various dangers in mind, then various spells I can use to get us out of those hypothetical dangers. I chose to wait for her all-clear, and I had to admit – although grudgingly – that this is her area of expertise, here. Her particular sphere.

The walkers parted to let her see, and her expression turned into one of concern, although different than the one she’d shown me earlier, and she dropped down into a crouch. I watched all this unfold with dispassionate interest. She stood up straight again after a moment, not bothering to smooth over the front of her dress or clean up the mud and dirt that had accumulated there.

“Dragon,” she called out to me, turning her gaze in my direction. “You might want to see this.”

“Do I _have_ to?” I told her, but she gave me one of her looks that brook no argument, so I sighed and trudged over to where she is.

She was staring at a small hole in a heart tree, flanked by the walkers, a hole that was no larger than my fist. Something moves inside the darkness. I approached warily, mindful of the walkers and careful not to turn my back on them, unlike her.

“What is it?” I asked her, barely concealing the irritation in my voice. If she led me out this far to do something idiotic…I cursed under my breath. It was worse enough that Marek led an expedition to this cursed place and dragged me along (no thanks to her), now _she_ had to do the same, too. The Queen had gone off dreaming, she told me, and I had seen her coaxing the creature into her tree, but I still have other reasons to distrust the Wood as a whole.

“I think there’s one of them, trapped in there.” She told me, putting an ear in the hole. A small rattling noise rose up from the opening, and Agnieszka pulled away. “We’ve got to get it out.”

“ _One of them_?” I remarked, every bit as incredulous as I sound. “In _there_? How can you be so sure?” I glanced at the walkers, and then at the _size_ of the hole. “You are quite _aware_ of the _size_ of the walkers, right? And if it _were_ in _there_ , _how_ did it get in there? How are you planning to _get it out_?”

I stared at her intently, partly hoping that this was all just some bad dream, and soon, I’d be awake in my bed in the capital, sunlight streaming through the window, and none of this ever happened, from the awkward meeting with her parents to…this.

“I don’t know how yet,” she admitted sheepishly, conveniently ignoring all my other questions, which I rewarded with a scowl. She pretended that she didn’t see it. “But I’ll figure it out. Can you help?”

She looked at me expectantly, her eyes the colour of soft brown earth, her dress and fingers stained with dirt. I looked away, towards the walkers, and noticed, to my annoyance, that they looked similarly _concerned_. I gave them a cold look, and turned my attention back to Agnieszka. I exhaled sharply, giving her a severe look.

“Fine,” I told her, gruffly. “Tell me your idea.”

She smiled, a crafty, thinking look settling upon her features, and I have to fight the urge to either roll my eyes, or kiss her.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I told her, as she started to tell me what she had in mind, and how she thinks I can help.

* * *

The afternoon was getting late when we made our journey back to the Tower, or at least what remained of it, Agnieszka by my side, the two walkers that had dragged us into this earlier following us. I was still uncomfortable with turning my back on them, but right now I have more important things occupying my mind.

The small, cat-sized walker nestling on her chest, for one. That was most definitely not part of the plan.

None of this was part of the plan. I looked at her, the travel-sized walker nuzzling her happily, like an oversized spider. I thought about all the ways I could have spent this day, instead of going with Agnieszka’s crazy plan. I could have started the repairs. I could be back in the inn by now, instead of trudging through the Wood with _three_ walkers, a book sitting on the desk in front of me. Even that lowly pighole is better than a walk through the Wood.

She noticed that I was staring, and gave me a small, hesitant smile. I quickly looked away.

We walked in silence for a while, and I was quite relieved that she did not disturb me needlessly this time – I assumed that the small gutter rat kept her busy – for I was observing the area we are passing through. Blind as I was, in the Wood, unlike her – I found it more than a bit unsettling, this acquaintance of hers with the blasted place – I realised that we were going on a different path. The two adult walkers had gone, at some point, perhaps while I was mentally occupied, and she was going down on it as if nothing ever happened – as if it was no cause of concern.

“We’re going to my cottage,” she broke the silence, explaining patiently, sensing that I have questions for her. A _barrage_ of questions, in fact. “This young walker is injured, and I’m going to nurture her back to health.”

I was, to put it in the simplest term, flabbergasted, but I wasn’t about to turn around and strike out on my own, not when Agnieszka still owe me an explanation.

“You-“ I started at first, struggling to find the right words. “You impossible madwoman, what are you getting me into this time? _Did you hear yourself speak?_ ” I exhaled, trying to center myself. This isn’t happening. I’ve gotten through worse. _This isn’t happening._ “You- you are speaking of _it_ as if it- as if _that thing_ was something to be nurtured!”

The mad, mad idiot then looked at me as if _I_ was the one who’s mad. The junior walker made a noise that sounds suspiciously like a low-pitched whine – _I did not know walkers made noises_ – and nestled closer to her, as if such an act could protect it from the impact of my words. She cooed and strokes it, giving me a cold, hateful look. I did not like that look.

“Look at what you’ve done,” she demanded, her voice full of accusation, as if I’d just set that ugly misshapen thing on fire, which I’m planning to do, “you’ve hurt _her feelings_.”

“Oh, for god’s sake-“ I have never been religious, not in the slightest, but I’ve sent a quick prayer to the saints, not to give me strength, but _patience_. If they gave me strength, I might be tempted to set the little walker on fire, the trees, and maybe this idiot too, while I’m at it. I certainly have no idea how _she_ had the gift. I certainly regretted teaching her some things, although she learnt most of her idiocy by herself. She was quite a natural, and an extraordinary one at that, too. “Agnieszka, _I’m not going to apologise to that thing._ ”

I thought that the emphasis was certainly necessary; from the way she was glaring at me, one hand stroking the trifling chaosmonger affectionately. _It_ was certainly playing the part of the hurt party _excellently_. It was better than Solya at acting. I had to give it that.

“Well, then you can find your way back on your own alright, can’t you?” She said, abruptly, sarcasm dripping from every word. “A _great_ wizard like _you_.”

I’m not quite sure whether to be impressed (I felt that I played an important part in her _education_ , no matter how small, and at least she is learning _something_ ), astonished, or hurt, but preferably not the latter.

“Just go back the way you came,” she continued, waving her free hand around absentmindedly, as if warding me away, “turn left, follow the path, and you’ll be fine. Or just use one of your nifty spells. I don’t care which.”

This time I _was_ hurt, although I didn’t show it, because there was a tone of finality in her words, as if we were parting for the last time.

As if she was shutting me out of her life altogether.

“Now _you’re_ the one who’s running away,” I hastened my pace, trying to catch up with her. Shooting me a glare, she did the same.

“I’m _not_ ,” she retorted, murder in her eyes. I wasn’t deterred. “And if I am, I happen to learn the particular skill from _someone_ who’s very _good_ at it.”

“It’s a pity that you didn’t learn much else from him.”

“It’s a pity that _he_ didn’t teach me much _else_.”

I might have winced at that particular barb, but I’m still trying to catch up with her. I have longer strides, but she was nimbler, used to running, and she was accelerating into a half-run. The walker clings to her for its dear life. It was an almost laughable sight, and an embarrassing one besides, her hair streaming out, her disagreeable dress torn in even more places than it was humanly possible. I was breathless not from the run.

“Agnieszka,” I called out to her, stopping, raising my palms in surrender. “Stop.”

She raised an eyebrow, and, thankfully, stopping. She eyed me, a calculating look in her eyes, cradling the walker protectively. She looked like she was part of the forest, a spirit raised to protect its creatures. I lowered my hands, suddenly finding them to be a much more interesting sight than the one in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I told her finally, after a moment of silence. Yes, my hands are a very interesting study indeed. Very scientifically _engaging_.

“For what?” She shot back, and I didn’t need my eyes to tell that she was raising her eyebrows, in that particular way that she always did whenever something was puzzling her. I let out an exasperated sigh, still staring at my hands. There was some dirt on them. I need to wash them soon.

“For…everything.” I paused, trying to gauge her reaction, stealing a glance. She was still staring at me expectantly, but there was a puzzled expression on her face, and she was biting her lip. She was caked with dirt, and impossibly attractive. I returned my glance to my hands. “For not staying at the festival, for being difficult, and for…disappearing.”

The last word was a particularly hard one, and after it left my tongue, a certain weight was lifted from my chest. I exhaled softly, turning my gaze to the trees, still not finding the courage to look directly at her. I was afraid that it might kill me.

“One more thing,” she remarked, a sliver of a smile in her voice, but still my breath caught, worry creeping in- “Will you apologise to her, too?”

I know who she meant by _her_ , or _what_ , to be precise, and what she’s asking of me. I forgot all my reservations then, glaring at her with all my might, suddenly grateful for the physical distance between us. But she looked hopeful enough, and crestfallen enough, and maybe I’ve really made a mistake and _fallen_ in love with her – there’s a very good reason why the idiom used the word _fall_ , because it describes exactly how I’m feeling, and I’ve never been very good at falling – that my resolve softened. I tried my best not to roll my eyes at the indignity. Does the fool _realise_ what she’s asking me to do?

“Fine,” I told her curtly, trying to get it over quick and maintaining what shred of dignity I still have left, “I apologise. There. Now can we please move on?”

She regarded me quietly, her expression unfathomable, her soft brown eyes impenetrable. I returned her look, trying to figure _her_ out.

“Sarkan,” she said, frowning, “I hate to tell you this, but it seems like she haven’t accepted your apology. Why don’t you…try again? Try to do it with more…feelings this time.”

“You can’t be serious.” It took every inch of self-control in me to not just roar at her and set the little homewrecker on fire. “I’m _not_ going to do that.”

A moment passed, and she burst out laughing. She burst out laughing so hard that I could only stare at her, confused and entranced at the same time by the sudden display. I was still stunned when she bends over, scooped up a handful of dirt with her free hand, and threw it in my direction. It hit me square in the shoulder.

“You should have _seen_ yourself,” she grinned, an earsplitting one that sets her entire face alight, shifting the walker to her other hand. “You looked so serious. You shouldn’t be so serious all the time. I was just joking.”

“In that case,” I cleared my throat, casting a quick cleaning cantrip under my breath. “My initial assessment was correct. You were _not_ being serious. As for me, may I remind you that I’m older than you-“

She did it again. Another handful of dirt landed on me, this time on my cheek. I quickly brushed it off and glowered at her. She laughed again, not the slightest bit remorseful that she had caused me this distress. The _worst_ kind of distress. I cast another cantrip.

“You’re so prickly,” she observed, more to herself than to me, “I used to play games like these with Kasia all the time, when we were kids. She’s a better pitcher than me. If she’s here, you’re going to get caked with dirt.” She grinned again, somehow pleased. The walker let out another noise that might have meant approval. I frowned. “And there would be no escape.”

“Sounds terrible,” I remarked, keeping an eye on her, in case she tried to pull off another on me. She looked distant now, her eyes far-flung, in another place, another time. “I’ve never played any…games like that before.”

I wouldn’t have the time, nor anyone to play such games with. I remembered my childhood only briefly, in fleeting glimpses, full of books and parchments and magic. I’m not especially fond of remembering it.

“It’s never too late to start,” she proclaimed, back again from her nostalgia, the look on her face positively mischievous. I muttered a curse under my breath, ready to summon a counterspell in case she starts flinging dirt at me again.

“Absolutely _not_.” I told her, firmly, as firmly as her earth spells. She gave a _look_ , her eyes pleading, and I could feel myself going soft for her again. I curse myself under my breath this time. “Maybe sometime,” I conceded, still not entirely happy with how the situation turned out to be, “some other time and _not now_.”

She smiled wide, rocking the walker slightly. It looked perfectly content in her arms, a perfect fit. I scowled at the thought.

“That’s good enough for me.” She nodded approvingly, looking content and at peace, causing my heart to do impossible feats, thankfully only metaphorically. “Spend the night at my place?”

I peered at her shrewdly, keeping the disapproving look on my face.

“It looks like I have no choice,” I told her casually. “I can’t exactly kiss you with that thing between us. It might _die_.”

Her smile grows wider, more amused, and she shook her head gently at my remark. She walked over, to me, taking my arm, uncharacteristically ladylike. She _might_ not be such a lost cause, after all.

“Considerate as usual, _my lord_.” She countered, just as casual, walking arm in arm with me. The little spidery thing extended an overly long hand to me, as if welcoming me. I shot it a glare and focused my attention on Agnieszka instead. The behaviour of her little monster seemed to have escaped her notice this time. “But still good enough for now.”

I might have pointed out that there are other ways to do that without having to crush the thing to pulps – putting it down, for one, like any sensible person would, although she _isn’t_ sensible, not in the slightest – but I opted to forgo words and do it instead, kissing her lips from the side. She let out a small yelp of surprise, almost dropping the walker, and before she could retaliate, I pulled away, unlink my arm from hers, and cast a quick spell to trip her over. She fell down, ungainly, with another yelp, the walker on top of her.

“ _That’s_ for the dirt.”

She was muttering something incorrigible, but I couldn’t hear her. I was caught up in the moment, flush with victory, the memory of her lips still lingered in mine, that I didn’t notice she was casting another spell. A second later _I_ was the one falling, to the sound of her laugh, and she was on top of me, her eyes gleaming, her lips on mine—

“Now,” she told me after, both of us still catching our breath, she was still on top of me, and I heard an odd sound coming out of my throat, something like _laughing_ \- “We’re _even_.”

She pulled herself up, dusting some leaves from herself, and picked the small walker up from where she left it under a tree. I was still dazed, still not entirely here, still can’t believe what I’m doing, what _we’re_ doing, that I’ve betrayed my own decision not to get involved—

She came over, bending over slightly, extending a hand.

“If you liked lying down under trees so much, you’re going to love my cottage.”

I accepted her hand, but not without one more scowl aimed at her general direction. 

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“You’re going to be there soon enough.”

I can barely suppress a groan, but I was looking at her entirely _too_ fondly, my reservations melting away. “I can’t wait,” I told her, and let the impossible, meddling, intolerable fool led me away.

It was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> It's called the hustle, sweetheart. Bad Zootopia jokes aside, I just can't resist making a Star Wars reference. Props if you can find it. Sarkan is a challenging character to write, but this has been a very rewarding experience, especially since I don't usually write in first person. I certainly hope I didn't screw anything up, and that I at least get his acerbic wit right. That aside, comments and suggestions welcome, apologies for any mistakes that I may have made. Thank you for reading!


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